Read Online Mrs. God by Peter Straub - Free Book Online

until the next morning—all busy fighting the fire, do you see? The pub went up like tinder. Danger the entire street might go up with it. And then of course after they’d put out the blaze they found the bodies, which had escaped most of the effects of the fire. Being in the cellar, you know. Oh!” His eyes flashed at Standish.
    â€œI’d forgotten—the chap, the boyfriend fellow, wasn’t the local poet. All part of the scandal. He had been important—not anymore. Fellow had been the librarian, something like that, headmaster perhaps, but had gone seriously downhill years before. Became a drunk. No job. Lived rough. Pub fellow couldn’t take the humiliation of being cuckolded by a virtual tramp.”
    Standish ate steadily while Wall spoke, in reality now only half-tasting the wonderful food.
    â€œThis is a terrible tale for dinnertime, isn’t it?”
    â€œNot really,” Standish said. “When I was in The Duelists—”
    â€œI must tell you the rest. The next day, as I say, the body of the publican was found on the road. Man had been crushed by the car that struck him. Car was still there, you see—driver’s door open, engine still running. No driver in sight. He had panicked and scarpered across the moor. Never knew he was innocent—never knew the whole tale.”
    â€œDidn’t they track him through his car?”
    â€œRented. Fellow may have used a false name, as far as I know. He’s still running, I suppose.”
    â€œThe man in The Duelists told me that someone had been murdered here.”
    â€œAt Esswood?”
    â€œYeah! An American, he said.”
    â€œThat’s very odd.” Wall seemed entirely unperturbed. “I’m sure I should have heard of it. After all, I’m generally somewhere about the place.” He was frowning-smiling, the frown being a disguise for a smile. It was perhaps the most ironic expression Standish had ever seen.
    â€œI thought it sounded funny,” Standish said.
    â€œCan’t really think when we last had a murder.” Wall was nearly smiling outright. “And I’ve been around here most of my life. Your fellow had the name confused with Exmoor or something of the sort. You weren’t worried about it, I hope?”
    â€œOf course not. Not at all. Nope.”
    â€œYou were clearly a good selection for an Esswood Fellowship, Mr. Standish.”
    â€œThanks.” Unsettled by the flattery, Standish wondered if he should ask Wall to call him William. Would Wall ask to be called Robert?
    â€œDid you happen to peek into the library on your way through the back hallway? If I were in your shoes, don’t think I could have resisted.”
    â€œWell, not really,” Standish said, and Wall raised his eyebrows. “That is, to tell you the truth, I did try the door, but it was locked.”
    â€œI’m afraid that isn’t possible. The library doors are never locked. Could it have been another door?”
    â€œNear the bottom of the stairs?”
    â€œHmm. No matter. Sounds as if it didn’t want to let you in. We may have to reconsider your application, Mr. Standish.”
    Now he knew he was being teased. He sipped his wine, and then met Wall’s continuing silence with a question. “You said you’ve been at Esswood most of your life. Were you born here?”
    â€œI was, in fact. My father was the gamekeeper before the first war, and we lived in a cottage beyond the far field.” Wall poured for himself and Standish. “In those days, what drew guests here to Esswood was Edith Seneschal’s hospitality and the fame of her kitchen, which as you see continues to be pretty good, but the pleasure they had in one another’s company and whatever they found to enjoy in Esswood itself kept them coming back. Their gratitude for that pleasure led them to contribute to our library—which is of course why it is unique. Every